It's a summer afternoon. I sit with Ajji in the verandah as she cleans rice, with her spectacles on, sipping lemonade, drowning the weevils in a bronze bowl. I hear mummy complaining of how I never kept things back to where they belong. Ajja takes his afternoon nap, which he thinks makes him fit for the rest of the day. That is, for taking walks with his friends who are retired teachers like him, discussing cricket and the government.
The occasional rustle of the leaves and the bee buzzing is all one can hear.
A silence where one hears one's soul.The white clouds floating away against a strange blue sky.
A distant bougainvillaea in her calm repose, a touch of warmth and a promise of the seasons to come.
The smell of everything that used to be.
It is the oldest thing I remember. And the most vivid. Why do I no longer believe? Have I felt too much sadness? As the sands of time? Why do I have to give up to the banalities that trouble an average Wednesday? But I smile. For, at least for a while, I was home.